


hurricane thundercloud

by argylemikewheeler



Series: Tumblr Re-posts [63]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lonnie Byers Being an Asshole, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argylemikewheeler/pseuds/argylemikewheeler
Summary: Inspired by Kettering by The Antlers





	hurricane thundercloud

It happened when they were twenty. Mike thought they were in the clear, thought they had escaped every bad dream of their childhood. They weren’t passing through Hawkins, despite doing so in between semesters. Their houses were still caged, even if their four walls didn’t scale quite as high as the ones they’d built around themselves.

Mike got the call while he was washing dishes one evening. He was still in his pajamas and had soap bubbles climbing up his hand as he reached for the phone. It rested between his ear and his shoulder as he ran soap and sponge against his mother’s best crystal, watching the sunset red wine spill over his hands. It was a regular Thursday night in May. It was just their third night home from college.

The news shattered Mike like one of the fragile glasses he was cleaning. He felt himself become an echo of the world around him before stumbling into the kitchen counter, grappling for stability. The voice was familiar-- Jonathan, he thinks. He can’t remember correctly, even when he’s older. Who ever it was, they were seeking out Mike only. They spoke calmly. It was only a three sentence conversation, but it felt like it went on for an hour without a breath.

_Get to Hawkins General as quickly as you can. Will’s here-- he’s in the hospital. He’s really fucked up._

At first, the phrase didn’t make any sense to Mike:  _really fucked up_. It wasn’t anything he associated with Will. His William had been a bit wild before, drinking a bit when the Party was home for Christmas, but he was fine. He drank water the next day and laid around Mike’s house with him and he was fine. It was the most sincerely pained smile Will had ever offered Mike, eyes squinting and blanket around his shoulders. What did this Will look like? He definitely wasn’t smiling.

And he wouldn’t for a very long time. But Mike didn’t know that. He had no way to. He barely saw this coming, phone ringing and breaking his calm evening into a million pieces.

Mike dropped the phone and sponge with a shuttering gasp. He backed away from the sink, like there was something crawling out of it rather than crawling through his mind. Something dark and heavy. Something Will had said in passing the night before:

 _I’m gonna tell him, Michael. I really am_.

He always said it, as a playful always-hypothetical threat to his father. Will would throw his relationship with Mike in his father’s face like a firecracker. Beautiful to all but the man seeing only the harmful individual sparks. But Will really did it this time. He lit the fuse and... maybe forgot to back away fast enough.

Mike barely remembered how he got to the hospital. He could have run for all he knew; he was sweating enough. Or was that tight, dry feeling on his face tear-tracks instead? It was immaterial. The only question Mike wanted an answer to was: "Where is Will? William Byers?”

It took Mike two hours to get into Will's room. He wasn't calm enough for them to let him in. In addition, he kept calling Will his  _boyfriend_ and it took that long to find a nurse who didn't turn their nose up at him. Mike kept thinking he should keep the truth to himself, but how would that not be just as terrible as whatever happened to Will?

Whatever happened. Mike didn't have to kid himself. He knew what happened. He could point the finger confidently and without remorse:  _Fuck_ Lonnie Byers. Mike wants to channel every hot tear and frustrated spat he had with the nurses to the karma of Lonnie, but Mike thinks it’s too kind to even appear to even think that much about him.

When Mike steps into the hospital room, it’s empty except for the bed. There’s someone on the bed, arms by his sides and resting over the blanket. His face is bruised and his cheek has a few stitches. It’s Will, Mike knows it is, but he doesn’t look like his William.

Mike had expected Will to look small, maybe frail and withering, but there was no overlooking the heavy, powerful contrast of his dark bruises against the white sheets. It’s the most confrontational Will’s ever looked. 

Well, maybe second. Mike wasn’t there when he spoke to Lonnie.

“Will?” Mike says. His footsteps clatter against the tile floor. He stops and waits for Will. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes crack open and find Mike. “Will. Where’s everyone? What happened?”

“Talking to Hopper.” Will’s voice is rougher than the last time Mike heard it. So much had changed.

Mike still hasn’t moved. He’s standing in the middle of the floor, hands by his sides. He talks in between beeps from Will’s machines. “What... What did you do?”

“ _I do_?” Mike hates how it sounds coming from someone else. It’s not what he meant. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“That’s not...” Mike steps closer. Nothing crumbles and Will doesn’t move further away. Will inhales slowly. He knows what question is actually coming; they just both don’t want to ask it. “I just want to know what happened.”

Will’s response is a hiccup-- a lurching sob. His hand reaches out for Mike’s and it’s the fastest thing in the room. Mike scrambles, not sure how to cradle something with a large needle taped to it. It makes all the warmth Mike tries to press into Will’s hand-- all the love he likes to think he keeps cupped in his hand and transfers over to his Will-- feel like it’s spoiled. It feels stale and frozen in the cold hospital air. Mike reaches with his other hand for another blanket to put on Will’s legs. He doesn’t even ask.

"I shouldn’t have told him.”

“Will--”

"She had  _just_  gone to work. I should have waited. I should have  _waited_. Michael, I’m sorry.” Will is still upset, bordering on hysterical. In a matter of seconds-- or had it been longer? Mike isn’t even sure he’s awake. His shirt is still wet from washing dishes but that feels like it was a week ago. Mike squeezes Will’s hand and tries to give solace to Will’s crumpling and shredded composure. He isn’t so sure it works.

“You don’t have to apologize to me.” Mike says, moving his thumb over the top of Will’s hand. You aren’t the one in the wrong.”

“I-I really threw it in his face, Michael. I was so terrible.” Will insists and Mike knows that Will isn’t going to believe anyone other than himself. So he stands in silence and listens. “He saw that card you gave me... the one you sent me after my terrible finals week... I had been reading it to try and cheer myself up and--  _God_ , I’m so stupid-- I left it on the table. Just out in the open. And he saw it. He asked who  _my sour sweet pea_ was... I could have said anyone. I  _should_ have just lied. .. I should have just lied.”

Mike knows lying is easier, but it’s the most painful option. They’d been slowly asking the other to numb every part of themselves, if only to feel less pain doing the same routine of lies. Will was the only one brave enough to tell Mike  _no_ , he wanted to feel again. Mike hates that the pain is now tangible and horrifically worse. All the numbing had done the opposite effect: all his pain was magnified.

“Hearing your name made his face twist up into this... this  _grimace_. I should have known then... His chest just started heaving like he was going to pass out. And then he just-- He got really mad. Michael, he got so mad... I’d never...  _so mad_.”

Will doesn’t speak on it much further. He doesn’t explain what was done to him. Mike can see it with his own eyes clearly. Mike can practically watch the argument from the colors changing in Will’s bruises. They’re deep and blotchy. They’re an announcement of hate neither had ever seen before.

Mike hushes Will and tries to sit next to him in bed. There isn’t much room and Will won’t stop shaking. Instead, Mike pulls up a chair up from the edge of the room. He hates standing away from Will for even a second. The distance makes Mike feel like he’s allowing the violence to exist unopposed. He sits down and lets Will know that it’s not.

“You didn’t deserve this, Will.”

“It sure feels like I do.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Will. You’re not guilty of--”

“I hit him too.” Will says. He acts like his words could do the same hurt to Mike. “I shouldn’t have. But I-I did. I was so  _mad_  and... I got so scared.” He chokes out his words and Mike isn’t sure how to help Will cough them up. “I thought... I thought maybe, while everyone was out and I was all alone... Lonnie was just going to let me die. Right there, sprawled on the carpet.”

“You’re okay though. You’re okay, Will. You’re here and so is your mom and your brother-- and Hop. I can call any of the Party if you need. You’re okay. You’re--”

“I love you, Michael,” Will says with a quivering voice. “But this hurts too much. All of it.”

Mike doesn’t try and convince Will it doesn’t. “I know, baby, I’m sorry. Do you just want to hurt right now?” 

“Yeah. I think so. I’m not ready to stop being mad yet. Part of me... Part of me wishes Mom hadn’t forgotten her keys. I wasn’t finished yet.”

“I know.” Mike doesn’t, but he says it anyway.

Mike rests his head on the mattress, just by Will’s hand and tries not to cry. It isn’t his turn to hurt, his turn to feel hopeless or insulted. Will’s taking on more than enough for them both, and Mike’s only job is to try and lift it. He listens to Will’s quiet sobs as if they’re complete words. He nods and hushes the ones that sound particularly coherent and painful.

There isn’t much else Mike can think to do. He thought-- in some hidden nightmare he only just realizes-- it’d be him in that hospital bed, leaving Will to pick up all the pieces. But now that the roles are reversed, it’s disorienting to learn there aren’t any pieces to clean up. There’s nothing whole enough to even scrape together. But at least, in some strange way, there’s nothing broken. Not on Will, not between them. Will lay there like he hadn’t lost a single thing. There were only ghosts of pride in his heart-- at least for now-- but he acted like they were ghouls, ready for their next haunting.

He was right. It wasn’t over, not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> [The Rebloggable Post!](https://argylemikewheeler.tumblr.com/post/185503816300/hurricane-thundercloud-byeler-inspired-by)


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